Shattered
by directedbysherlock
Summary: Several months after his return from the Fall, Sherlock Holmes is jealous of Tom, having some trouble adjusting to Molly's new relationship and his fear of losing her in his life. Meanwhile, Molly may not be exactly head over heels for Tom and still has feelings for Sherlock, but she doesn't let Sherlock get the upper hand.


The sound of shattering glass filled the air, breaking the heavy silence that had permeated the lab all day. Molly had just returned from a three-day weekend with Tom. They had gone somewhere outside of London for a friend's wedding or something banal like that, Sherlock had heard. He had come to the lab to ask Molly to run some tests for him. He had not approached her yet, although his eyes had never stopped following her since he had arrived. She had been roaming the lab and muttering the whole time like an angry bear.

"Shit!"

The sound of Molly Hooper's voice echoed from the other side of the lab.

Sherlock pushed away from the microscope, his eyebrows raised. He did not often hear that kind of language come from Molly. Intrigued, he got up and went around to the other side of the counter to investigate.

A shattered beaker lay on the floor and Molly was just crouching down beside it.

"Careful," Sherlock warned. "You'll cut yourself."

Molly glanced at him, a look of irritation and rebellion on her face. She ignored him and proceeded stubbornly to pick up a piece of glass.

"Shit, shit, shit!" she exclaimed again, jerking her hand away and dropping the glass. He saw that there was a cut on her finger, and blood was beginning to pool and drip.

She stood up and held her injured finger before her in the air, inspecting it with detachment.

"Sorry, bad day," she murmured.

Unusual, Sherlock mused. Molly Hooper typically had an unflappably sunny disposition. Today was a rare display of ill humor. Maybe her weekend with Tom had not been so rosy. He had a hard time imagining _any_ time spent with Tom would be rosy, the mere thought of whom irritated him to irrational extremes.

Looking at her cradling her wounded finger, he found an excuse to penetrate her silence which had left him sulky all day.

"Leave that mess for now. Let's take care of that first." He closed his long fingers around her wrist, guiding her hand towards him. "Let me see."

Molly tried to pull her hand away, but his grip was stronger. She suddenly teared up. "I'll be fine. It's just a cut. I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks." She would not look him in the eye.

He didn't answer, just frowned and examined her finger with his eyes. "I assume you have a first aid kit." He was useless with words of comfort.

She pointed to a drawer right next to them and he removed the box, briefly letting go of her finger, which she drew away quickly.

"It's all right," he said lightly as he tried to reassure her, getting out an antiseptic pad and a plaster. He quickly recaptured the wounded finger.

"Remember, I'm a graduate chemist," he continued, now attempting to joke a little.

Molly scoffed nervously. "And that makes you qualified to administer first aid?"

"Yes, obviously," he stated simply.

He set to work and applied the plaster, noting how much smaller her hand was in his. He was becoming very aware of her standing so close to him, wondered what she was feeling. Curious, he turned her hand over to expose the skin of her wrist and brushed it gently with his fingertips, pausing there. Pale, smooth, and cool - like alabaster. He could see the bluish veins just below the surface of the perfect skin. He had not known her skin was like alabaster.

"Your pulse is elevated." He returned his gaze to her face, still with his fingertips resting lightly on her wrist. "Molly Hooper, I would not have suspected that a forensic pathologist would be so affected by the sight of blood," he tried to tease, but his voice trailed off as he saw the play of expressions across her face.

She stared at him, fixated, tensed like a small animal ready to run at the first sign of danger. He could hear her breathe rapidly, could feel her pulse increase beneath his fingers.

"You know it's not the sight of blood, you sod," she said quietly. "You know it's you. It's always been you."

He could feel his own pulse quicken immediately. He liked that she was finally noticing him, responding to him. He liked how her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. She tried to pull her hand free but Sherlock held it firmly. Then her hand stilled and she looked away, causing his grip to tighten.

Right now, he thought suddenly, fiercely, she would look at _him_. Not at Tom, not at Lestrade, not at anyone else but him.

"Maybe I _am_ just your type," he said softly, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. His head tilted to the side in a somewhat predatory manner. "Is Tom your type?"

Her gaze slowly slid over to his.

"Tom is….available. He's nice to me. He pays attention to me."

"I pay attention to you," he protested.

"Sure, when it suits you," Molly scoffed, but then became more somber. "Tom doesn't make me feel… insignificant."

Sherlock scowled. "You're not insignificant to me," he said roughly. "I've told you that. You made everything possible. Why would you say that?"

He moved even closer. He knew he was being a bit of a prick, and he didn't care. He lowered his voice, seductive in tone. "How else does Tom make you feel?" he asked, his voice low and silky. He still held her wrist and his thumb began to gentry stroke the pale skin there, slowly, back and forth. "Does Tom make your pulse race like this?"

She looked away again. "Sometimes, yes."

At her simple admission, something dark filled his heart.

"Tom doesn't even know you," he said derisively, angrily. "Tom doesn't know the _real_ you, not like I do."

He did not like this Tom, who made Molly try to forget him, who made Molly pay attention to someone else, who made Molly switch her loyalties. He might make her pulse pound, but it was Tom she went home to at night. He was no longer the center of Molly Hooper's universe, which he had always taken for granted. He had never imagined he could become less in her eyes and the realization came as a shock.

His reaction was swift and brutish, but he knew no other way when his emotions so rarely surfaced. His head dipped down to hers; his lips, tantalizing, hovered just above her own.

"I could take you, you know," he growled. "I could take you from him."

He moved as near to her as possible, his black suit brushing against her white coat, just the smallest of space to bridge now. He waited for her to press against him, for her lips to come to his, to close that fateful inch, to prove he was right.

He did not expect it when she stepped back, the air around him suddenly so empty.

She stood before him, trembling and a little breathless, but her voice was surprisingly fierce and clear.

"Really, Sherlock, what would you do with me anyway, once you had me?"

Carefully avoiding the shattered glass, she grabbed her jacket and exited the lab, leaving Sherlock to pick up the pieces.

_Author's note: This is a stand-alone story which actually appears as Chapter 13 in my longer story also posted on FF , Never the Right Time. The longer story covers five years of Sherlock events and roams over Molly's beginning interest in Sherlock to a relationship with Lestrade. The story as it appears here is just slightly different; it's a bit more raw in this form (this is the original way I wrote it), focused on just Sherlock and Molly, and I posted it for Sherlolly fans and for those who don't want to read the whole long story. I don't intend to update this one, but if it sounds of interest, you could check out Never the Right Time!_


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